


Blind Date

by Syrum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Dates, Blind Date, Dating, Getting Together, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Protective Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-11-02 13:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20764580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: Greg had gone into this blind - which, he supposed, was the wholepointof a blind date.He hadn't expected to run into Mycroft Holmes, that much was for certain.“Detective Inspector?”  Greg almost choked on his pint at the familiar voice and gentle touch to his shoulder.  Twisting in his seat, he found himself face-to-chest with one Mycroft Holmes, the man’s quirked brow and twitch of lips betraying amusement at Greg’s surprise.  “I would not have expected to see you in this sort of establishment.”  Which, Greg supposed was Mycroft’s way of saying, isn’t this a bit high class for someone like you?





	Blind Date

**Author's Note:**

> Did you think I'd stopped writing for this pairing?? Haha no, I'm just slow as heck.

The bar was relatively quiet, with not more than perhaps two dozen individuals occupying the ground floor and only a handful more upon the balcony space suspended above it. There was a low hum of chatter, the sound of conversation and polite laughter barely rising above the pleasant if nondescript music trickling out from the speaker system. Unusual for a Friday night; any of Greg’s usual haunts would have been thrumming with bodies and noise at that time. But then again, this particular drinking establishment was so far beyond the sort of dive he might stumble into after work, who was he to say what might be normal and what wasn’t?

It had been Donovan’s idea. She had a friend who she was sure he would like, she had said. Recently single and just his ‘type’, whatever that was supposed to mean. Had talked him into agreeing to the ridiculous idea of a blind date, and apparently her friend had also agreed. His mystery date had been the one to choose the bar where they were to meet, and Greg had known long before he stepped foot into the place that the drinks alone were going to be enough to bankrupt him. The bouncers on the door - both of them - were dressed in suits that looked as though they likely cost more than his monthly salary and while they had not stopped him from entering, he could feel their curious glances upon his back as he made his way to an empty bar stool and ordered a pint of something he couldn’t pronounce and didn’t want to ask the price of, leaving his card behind the bar.

No one met his eye as he glanced around, though he could feel their amusement and curiosity at his presence. Tables of mahogany were dotted around the room, many occupied by only two or three people - couples, mostly - and he wondered how many millions their combined finery would have initially cost. A wide, winding staircase trailed up to the balcony area, which served as the ceiling for half of the ground floor, while the other half stretched up to what must have been the roof of the building, a pair of ridiculously over the top chandeliers suspended on long chains to light the open-plan space. To say that Greg felt entirely out of place was something of an understatement.

The lavish setting did little to settle his nerves; this was his first proper ‘date’ since the divorce papers had come through, since before he and Emma had gotten together well over a decade earlier. It had taken a long time to come to terms with the fact that the woman he had loved - had married, had imagined a future growing old with - felt none of that for him any more. It took even longer for him to reach a point where he felt ready to move on. He had gotten there though, eventually - but where did a greying, middle-aged policeman go to find something that wasn’t a one or two night thing? How did people actually  _ meet _ one another nowadays? It had seemed so much simpler in his twenties.

“Detective Inspector?” Greg almost choked on his pint at the familiar voice and gentle touch to his shoulder. Twisting in his seat, he found himself face-to-chest with one Mycroft Holmes, the man’s quirked brow and twitch of lips betraying amusement at Greg’s surprise. “I would not have expected to see you in this sort of establishment.” Which, Greg supposed was Mycroft’s way of saying,  _ isn’t this a bit high class for someone like you? _

Not that he likely meant anything by it, and he had certainly not meant for it to be as insulting as it sounded; Mycroft was simply like that. As Sherlock was.

“It’s not.” He agreed with a hint of a smile. “Didn’t think this was your sort of place, either.” Not that Greg would have imagined Mycroft in  _ any _ sort of bar before that moment, really. But still, despite the finery and the expense and the fairly preposterous decor, the place seemed somehow  _ beneath  _ the man.

“I’m meeting someone.” He clarified, perching himself upon the empty stool to Greg’s left. “My assistant has taken steps to set me up with a  _ date _ , of sorts, with an unknown individual.” A blind date, then? Coincidence really was a funny thing, he thought.

“Huh, funny that.” Greg hadn’t meant to vocalise his thought process, and took a mouthful of his beer before continuing, the Dutch courage he had so sorely needed upon entering the place starting to take effect in the form of a pleasant warmth in his chest. “Donovan’s done the same to me - I don’t normally go for this whole ‘blind date’ thing, mind.”

“Neither do I.” Mycroft admitted with a rueful smile, catching the bartender’s attention with a flick of his wrist and ordering a neat scotch. “Yet, meeting men in my line of work is something of a difficult business, so I leave the organisation of such things to Anthea.”

“Meeting anyone at all when you’re over about twenty three seems pretty much impossible, so you’re not alone there.” He agreed, eyes flickering to the elaborate wrought iron clock suspended above the bar - eight minutes to seven, he had arrived ridiculously early it seemed. “Any idea who the lucky guy is?”

“I haven’t the foggiest, I’m afraid.” There was a pleased sort of expression which morphed across Mycroft’s face for a moment at the obvious if somewhat mild compliment, and Greg found that he rather liked it. “It’s always better to simply not know before the meeting itself, I find - helps to reduce the inevitable disappointment to more manageable levels.” He had leaned himself forwards almost conspiratively, and Greg barked out a laugh, finally relaxing into himself as Mycroft’s presence soothed at the edges of his frayed nerves. The minute hand flicked to record the official passing of another minute  _ seven to seven _ , and a treacherous little thought filtered across his mind.

He was there for a blind date.  _ Mycroft _ was there for a blind date.  _ What if-  _ no, he dismissed the idea out of hand,  _ ridiculous _ . For starters, Donovan wouldn’t have thought to set him up with a man. He hadn’t kept his sexuality a secret as such, but people did have a tendency to  _ assume _ unless they were given proof to the contrary, and he hadn’t known her before he settled down with Emma. Besides, she wouldn’t have any way to track down Mycroft or his people anyway. Anthea, however - Greg knew the woman was endlessly resourceful, it would take almost no effort on her part to contact his sergeant and set up something like this.

_ Was Mycroft Holmes Greg’s date? _

It was a pleasant enough thought; he made no secret of his attraction to the man, had even spoken to John on the matter more than once with a pint in his hand and the football on the telly down his local. Sherlock, however, was still entirely unaware according to John. Which, knowing Sherlock, was likely through choice rather than ignorance.

The fantasy was dashed before it could truly form, and thankfully before he could voice it, Mycroft’s attentions stolen away by the arrival of a fairly attractive blonde twenty-something. The man was all perfect white teeth and flawless tanned skin, the product of youth and money and Greg knew from a glance that he himself had never stood a chance.

He was stupid, an idiot for even considering it. The new arrival shot him a barely disguised withering look and Greg knew he imagined the twinge of regret which passed Mycroft’s own features as he was forced to play the role of date.

_ No, not forced - you’re projecting again, Greg. Stop it. He’s beyond your reach and you know it. _

“Best of luck with your evening, Gregory.” Mycroft’s parting words, the use of Greg’s full name, sent a pleasant shiver up his spine which quickly morphed into an unpleasant ache as it relocated itself to the pit of his stomach.

“You too.” A raise of his hand in parting, and he turned back to the bar, not wanting to watch the horribly attractive stranger lead Mycroft away to enjoy a date that was likely to be far more pleasant than his own. Not that he was trying to be negative about the whole thing, but this woman - and Sally  _ had _ used ‘she’ and ‘her’ pronouns when talking about her friend, so of  _ course _ it wasn’t going to be Mycroft - would need to be fairly spectacular to match up to the fantasy of taking Mycroft home with him.

_ Two minutes to seven. _

_ Seven o’clock. _

_ Five past seven. _

_ Twenty two minutes past seven. _

She wasn’t coming. Greg knew in his gut that he had been stood up - he fired off a quick text to Sally to let her know the date had been a non-starter and took another swallow of his pint. It was only his second of the evening; he had forced himself to drink slowly, despite the earlier panic, wishing to keep all of his faculties in case the date had actually gone well. Not that it mattered much any more, he would be going home alone as usual. Still, he would rather drink beer he could actually  _ afford _ in a pub where he could let himself relax around people of similar social standing to him. The curious stares had stopped, the other patrons of the bar clearly having gotten used to his presence, but Greg still felt horrifically out of place. The sooner he could leave, the better.

He would wait until half past, he decided; give Sally long enough to contact this friend of hers and hopefully come back to him with some sort of excuse. Long enough to finish his drink and retrieve his card from behind the bar, and that would be the end of it.

Greg’s attention drifted over to the table at the back wall, against his better judgement. Mycroft was just visible across the room, close enough that Greg could observe without being seen, yet not so close that he could hear their conversation. Mycroft looked downright  _ bored _ , his face the usual placid mask bordering on pleasant, his date half hidden behind a tall woman in a red dress sitting at one of the tables in the middle of the room, breaking his line of sight.

Well, if nothing else Greg could spend the remaining eight minutes reassuring himself that at least  _ one _ of them was going to go home a little less lonely. It was a slightly bitter thought, but he forced it down with another mouthful of beer as he settled back to watch.

Mycroft’s face really was  _ fascinating _ , and Greg hoped that the man would remain entirely too engrossed in his date and so neglect to notice the attention being lavished on him from afar. He was a master of controlling what others were able to see, his emotions carefully sequestered away from prying eyes, though that didn’t mean he was entirely absent of tells - just that it took someone who actually knew the man to be able to accurately translate the slight shifts in expression.

And really, when had he become such an expert in reading Mister  _ minor position in the British government _ ?

There was a shift in his position, minute movement away from his drinking companion and the tug of a frown that was gone before it appeared without ever moving his mouth. Whatever the blonde had said, Mycroft hadn’t liked it, the shift a subconscious need to put a little more much-needed distance between the two of them. He could see the extra level of security go up, any openness vanishing without a trace as he closed himself off entirely.

Well, that was an interesting change. Greg couldn’t help the way his own brow pinched together, lips dropping into a small frown. There was something about the blonde’s demeanor that rubbed him up the wrong way - and he was self-aware enough to know that his own attraction to Mycroft might well have coloured his dislike of the man, at least in part. Still, he’d been a policeman for long enough by that point that his gut instinct was something he did  _ not _ ignore.

He’d always been a pretty good judge of people, anyway.

The woman in the red dress finally moved from her spot, giving Greg an unobstructed view of their table, and of Mycroft’s blind date. The blonde had leaned in, much too close and even from that distance Greg could  _ see _ Mycroft’s discomfort. A flash of teeth, a winning smile, and more words that Greg couldn’t quite make out.

He’d planned on leaving, finishing his drink and going home to lost the rest of his weekend in a mindless film or whatever nonsense was on the telly that night. Maybe pick up a pizza or a greasy kebab on the way home - he hadn’t known what the date was going to entail, and so hadn’t eaten anything since lunch time, just in case his date had expected to be wined  _ and _ dined.

And yet, his glass stood empty, plans forgotten as he watched and waited. Greg wasn’t even sure what he was waiting for, not really, but something in his gut and in Mycroft’s expression told him to stay put. Mycroft could look after himself, sure - and he likely had bodyguards on standby, but that didn’t mean Greg was about to ignore the scene playing out in front of him.

Mycroft’s date leaned in further and seemed to shift in his seat. Mycroft himself very nearly jumped out of his chair, a violent flinch jolting through him and Greg wasn’t close enough to see or hear what had caused it. Still, he could guess, and the ideas surfacing in his head of what that hand under the table had just tried to do only served to worsen his opinion of the blonde. Mycroft had flushed, a combination of anger and embarrassment if Greg wasn’t mistaken, if he was reading the look on Mycroft’s face correctly. His expression had twisted into a barely-controlled frown and while Greg couldn’t tell what he was saying, he could see that the words weren’t happy ones.

The other man didn’t seem deterred,  _ pushing his luck  _ from the looks of things and Mycroft lifted an arm in an attempt to push the guy back.

It didn’t seem to work, and Greg was torn over whether to intervene or not. On the one hand, Mycroft was his friend - or, something close to it - and this  _ prick  _ was looking to get his ass handed to him if he carried on the way he was going. On the other, Mycroft might not appreciate being treated like a damsel in distress. He might take offense to Greg interrupting his date and playing the part of the white knight. Hell, Greg might have read the whole thing wrong, and forcing an intervention could push Mycroft away, putting an end to the tiny flame of friendship that had started to flicker between the two of them.

He knew he hadn’t,  _ knew  _ that what he was witnessing wasn’t quite right, wasn’t his imagination - but the thought was there and he hesitated. Grey eyes flicked across to him, and there was a look of such  _ pleading  _ there.

What the hell was he doing - waiting for a damned invitation? Greg slid from his seat, empty glass abandoned on the bar as he berated himself for his indecision. For whatever reason, Mycroft couldn’t get himself out of the situation he had gotten himself into - and Greg knew he would be as unlikely to tell Greg that reason as Greg was not to ask about it.

“There a problem here?” He didn’t so much as stand over the blonde prick as loom over him - Greg wasn’t exactly the tallest or the broadest man in the room, but years on the force had ensured he was well-versed in knowing how to intimidate those far larger than he was, when necessary.

And besides, he’d been told his ‘Detective Inspector voice’ was hot as hell.

“Not at all, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft replied, expression shifting into one of pleasant neutrality and voice dripping like honey. “Michael here was just leaving - weren’t you Michael?” The blonde prick didn’t look happy at that, and Greg could see from where he was standing that the asshole had his hand on Mycroft’s thigh, close enough to his crotch that it was nearing obscene.

He  _ squeezed,  _ and Greg wondered for a moment if he could get away with punching the guy.

“Right.” Still he lingered, and Greg knew he must have gotten the hint by that point. Mycroft’s mask of neutrality remained in place and he did not move, waiting for Michael, and Greg knew Mycroft wasn’t about to crack first. “Fine.” The man  _ finally _ hissed out, sounding less than amused as he shoved up from his seat. The chair skittered backwards a good foot and he pushed past Greg with a glare that could have melted metal.

“Sorry,” Greg broke the silence between them at last, once Mycroft’s date had stormed out past the bouncers and into the street. “Didn’t mean to crash your date.”

“Nonsense, Gregory.” Mycroft assured, a small smile on his thin lips that seemed almost soft in the low lighting. “You did precisely what I hoped you would do. Sit?” One elegant hand waved briefly towards the discarded chair, and on impulse Greg dragged it back to the table, hesitating before seating himself.

“You don’t mind hanging out with an old copper like me?” He clearly didn’t - otherwise he wouldn’t have asked, and while Greg was  _ generally _ confident, when he was around Mycroft it was another matter entirely.

“Not in the least. You are by  _ far  _ the most interesting person in the room, I’d be quite mad to turn you away.” And  _ that _ was a compliment and a half, wasn’t it? Greg felt his cheeks colour slightly, coughing into his hand as he slid into the vacated seat and let his hands rest on the smooth mahogany table top.

“M’just glad I stuck around to help. He was-” A complete and utter prick. An asshole. Unworthy of Mycroft’s time - any and all of the above, really, but Mycroft took the decision out of Greg’s hands.

“Quite handsy, yes. Honestly, I should have remained with you at the bar - I knew the instant I laid eyes upon the man that he was about as far from my ideal choice as was possible.”

“I mean, he  _ was _ easy on the eyes, I suppose?” He wouldn’t have kicked him out of bed, at least. Although, from the two short interactions Greg had endured with the man, he wasn’t sure the blonde could have talked his way  _ into _ bed with him in the first place.

But then, he hadn’t been trying to, had he? Maybe Greg would have felt differently if he was in Mycroft’s shoes.

“True. He was also vapid, pushy and intolerably rude.” Mycroft took a sip of his scotch, and how he had made the one drink last for quite so long was entirely beyond Greg. His own hands felt uncomfortably empty, but the thought of leaving Mycroft’s side to fetch another drink from the bar - no, he wasn’t about to do that, not when the man seemed to be showing a tiny spark of interest in him. “I have to admit I hadn’t been paying attention, but I’m assuming your date has  _ also _ not gone as planned?”

“Yeah, looks like I’ve been stood up.” Greg huffed out of his nose and leaned back in his seat, legs stretching out under the table. He hadn’t checked his phone for a while, admittedly, but he hadn’t felt it vibrate either, meaning it was unlikely that either Sally  _ or _ his mystery date had tried to contact him.

Hopefully Sally would have  _ some _ sort of explanation for him, come Monday morning.

“Her loss.” Mycroft replied, somewhat airily as he downed the last of his drink. “My gain, it seems.” Greg was at a loss for words, his tongue not seemingly able to twist around any sort of reply for a long moment. “If you’re not opposed,” Mycroft continued, and if he was aware of Greg’s present predicament then he didn’t show it. “I have a bottle of vintage red at home that I’ve been meaning to uncork - shall we?”

Greg didn’t need asking twice. Gathering his credit card from behind the bar, he followed Mycroft out, not knowing quite what to expect but knowing that at some point in the past hour, they had turned a page.

Maybe the evening hadn’t been a complete waste of time after all.


End file.
